


This is the path I'll never tread

by psychomachia



Category: Walking on Broken Glass - Annie Lennox (Music Video)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2019-05-14 05:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14763485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: He isn't supposed to move on from her and get married in some sort of blissful wedding ceremony. He's supposed to pine for her for the rest of his life, compare anyone he meets to her and whisper her name with his last dying breath. Clearly, something has gone horribly wrong.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



“Monsieur Lapointe has finally taken a wife,” whispered Madame Archambault to her dear friend, Madame de Poirier, when they had taken a seat together at the latest salon hosted by their enemy (and also dear friend) Madame Brodeur. .

“No!” Madame de Poirier said, quite shocked. “Who is she?”

“No one knows,” she said, fanning herself, pleased at the reaction. “She's simply a nobody. But it appears she has some money, since they say that's why he finally chose to wed.”

“Well, he wouldn't wed if she was simply pretty. We all saw what happened when Monsieur Renaud tried to marry Genevieve off to him.”

“I hear poor Francois is still reeling from his rejection.”

“Well, after Genevieve running off with that Prussian soldier, it's a wonder the Renaud family dare even show their faces anymore.”

“Of course,” Madame Archambault added after a moment of delightful reminiscing about that particular affair, “he must be quite besotted with her to wed so quickly. Unless--”

The two women exchanged knowing looks and then Madame de Poirier, said quite lightly, as if the thought had just crossed her mind, “Has anyone told Sybille?”

* * *

“That treacherous bastard,” Madame du Rand screamed as she burst through the door of Madame L'Hernaut's very golden, ornate drawing room. “I will have his head on a platter.”

“It's lovely to see you, too, Sybille,” Aurelie L'Hernaut said, motioning for her maid to vacate the room at all due haste. “I see you've heard about Olivier.”

Across from her, Madame Courtemanche picked up a glass of wine from the table. “I must say it did come a surprise to me as well. We had all thought he would never get married.”

Sybille fumed as she took a seat on the divan next to her and accepted the glass of wine Lucienne offered. “He gave me no warning that this would occur. No sign, no portent, no indication in my cards whatsoever.”

Aurelie lifted her eyebrows. “You did not foretell this at all? That's rather surprising for you. I believed you to be capable of predicting any events, no matter how trivial.”

“Does that mean we can finally invite you to play Polignac again?” Lucienne chimed in. “We've needed a third player for quite some time and dear Frederique is so unreliable. And possibly dead again.”

“Enough!” Sybille said. “It's just an oversight. I wasn't paying as close a watch as I should have. My gift is just as strong as it has always been.”

Aurelie and Lucienne did not comment, though their silence was fairly telling. “In any event,” Aurelie said, “I don't see why you should be so angry. You've made it perfectly clear that you were completely done with him.”

“You said that his fate was none of your concern and that any marriage he made would be a relief to the rest of the poor girls that cross his path,” Lucienne added.

“You said that if he chose to run off with a pig, it would be a perfect match though you would feel sympathy for the swine.”

“Yes, I know said all of this,” Sybille replied, draining her glass of wine, “but he's decided to actually get married.”

No one spoke for a while. Aurelie's guest was in a dangerous mood, it was three days to Walpurgis Night, and she had just bought new rugs and didn't want to see them set on fire.

“Does anyone know anything about her?” Sybille eventually said. “No one seems to know her name and when I scry, it's as if there's a veil of fog between me and her. She clearly is one of us.”

Lucienne set her glass on the low table in front of her. “Well, if she is, she's quite good. Everyone I meet seems to be charmed by her instantly, though none of them can tell me why.”

“I've been to all the same parties as her,” Aurelie said, “but she's managed to avoid me at all of them, so I have nothing of hers for you to read. I was able to get her name however, from Jeanne. It wasn't simple and I owe her a favor, so you owe me one.”

“Yes, yes,” Sybille said impatiently. “Who is she?”

“She goes by the name Delphine Blanchard, but that's hardly helpful without any blood or hair--”

“It's enough,” Sybille interrupted, her rage gone as though a wind had swept through the room and blown it away. Her face was pale. “I know her.”

The silence stretched on for a while.

“And are you going to say anything further?” Lucienne said, when she could take it no more. “How are we supposed to help if your mouth remains shut on any knowledge that we could use?”

“No,” Sybille said, rising to her feet. “I do not require your assistance for this matter. Thank you for all your help. I will not forget your favor, Aurelie.”

And with that, Madame du Rand signaled for her coachman to bring the carriage around. She donned her cloak and left the room much quieter than she entered it, the door shutting quietly behind her.

“So that's it,” Lucienne said to her friend. “Our part in this has ended.”

“On the contrary,” Aurelie said. “I believe we may yet have a role.” 

* * *

 Sybille arrived home a few minutes before dark and prepared herself. Now that she knew the name of her enemy, there was nothing to do but wait. After all, she and Delphine knew exactly what the next step in this game was.

“Mademoiselle Blanchard is here to see you, Madame,” her doorman announced.

“Show her in and leave us, Jacques,” Sybille said and moved her ruby ring to her left hand in preparation should the unexpected occur and Delphine attack.

Delphine was just as beautiful as she remembered her, Sybille thought, as she entered the room. How odd to think that only a few years had passed since the two of them had spoke and yet it seemed no one had aged at all?

“Hello, Delphine,” Sybille said.

“Hello, sister,” she replied.

So that was how she wanted to play it. Fine. She wouldn't put on any pretense either. “End this, Delphine. End your game now.”

“Well, that's rude,” Delphine said, taking a seat on the divan. “You are not going to ask how I've fared since you left my life in ruins? No apologies? Not even a sisterly kiss on the cheek?”

“I didn't ruin your life, sister. I saved it.”

“By murdering my fiance?”

“You do remember that he had murdered six of his wives and was well on his way to a seventh before I disposed of him?”

Delphine waved her hand dismissively. “I could have taken care of Gilles. He wouldn't have killed me.”

“You were screaming in a tower as he held a sword to your throat.”

“We had a minor disagreement. It would have resolved itself.

“Stop,” Sybille said. “Just stop. It's clear that we will never agree on this. Just as I will never agree to you marrying Olivier.”

Delphine smiled. “You do realize your permission is not required here. I have grown, sister, and I doubt there is anything you can do to stop me.”

“You haven't grown that much,” Sybille said, “if you resort to childish revenges like stealing my ex-lover.”

“Stealing? Well, I may have given him a bit of a nudge, but it's hardly stealing to take something that someone has thrown away.”

“First, he's mine. He's always been mine. And second, if you had to enchant him in order to make him leave me, it's not a fair fight.”

“Now we know that's hardly possible. I would have to be some kind of extraordinarily talented sorceress to break through his defenses. You were never able to, if I recall. Unless--”

“Unless what?”

“Unless,” and Delphine's smile widened.”I've grown stronger than you.”

The window of her curio cabinet cracked behind her and Sybille mentally cursed her lack of control. “What do you want?”

Delphine stopped smiling. “What do I want?” she answered, tilting her head. “What makes you think I want anything from you?”

“You don't do anything without making up a reason for why you chose to do it, Delphine,” Sybille said. “That's what was so irritating about you when you were younger. Even if you didn't know what you were doing, you always pretended like you did. So I repeat: What do you want?”

“Fine,” she said, standing up. “Let's just be clear. There is nothing you can give me that I want except for your pain. I want you to be desperate. I want you to suffer. I want you to love something and lose it.”

“You didn't even love him,” Sybille whispered.

“You don't know what I love. You never did.”

No, Sybille thought, as her sister left the room as quickly as she had came. I never knew anyone at all.

* * *

_She's eighteen at the first of many of Madame Travers' dreadful parties when she first meets him. She wears the white dress awkwardly, and glances over at Emma, who's serene and calm and makes Sybille want to throttle her. It's all well and good for her. She's not the one that keeps being told that she has to keep control, don't let her emotions show, for pity's sake, Sybille, we just rebuilt the music room yesterday._

_But it's hard to stay still, smile brightly, when half the idiots here are terrified of her and the other half treat her like she's some sort of entertainment dragged out for their amusements. Of course, at half past there's fireworks, then a juggler, and Sybille will make some flowers appear. Won't that be lovely? Let's forget all the executions happening back home and just have a party._

_She's tempted to give them a tiger instead. That would certainly liven up the evening._

_“It is deeply pointless, isn't it?” a voice says from behind her. “I've been to over a dozen of these this year and each time I think it can't possibly get worse. Then it does.”_

_Sybille turns around and there's Olivier Lapointe, a man she's heard a bit about, none of it good, but all of it interesting._

_“He's illegitimate,” Aurelie whispered to her one night in their beds. “His father's some noble who was beheaded a month ago. When he heard the news, he said they chopped off the wrong part.”_

_“He's not a gentleman,” Lucienne said. “I heard Caroline caught him with Jeanne and instead of begging forgiveness, he asked her to come back in twenty minutes and he'd give her his full attention.”_

_He must be an excellent lover, she thinks, because he's too intense, his eyes too piercing to really charm a woman. Nonetheless, she will herself to be intrigued._

_“Well, now that you're here, Monsieur Lapointe, we can only hope the evening has improved.” She reaches out her gloved hand._

_He smiles at her and bends low to kiss it. “I was rather thinking the same thing about your presence, Mademoiselle du Rand.”_

_She casually reaches out her power, just a bit, to see where the evening might go._

_It's a pleasant surprise._

* * *

  _She's twenty-four and she might be arrested for treason against the Crown because she is very close to pushing George into the fountain to make him shut up._

_“If you would excuse us,” Olivier says to George. “I believe Maria is looking for you.”_

_“Really?” he says. His dopey smile makes Charlotte's hand itch and she clenches it to keep herself from doing something she won't regret, but will probably pay for. “Another time, Mademoiselle?”_

_“Of course,” she says, smiling brightly. “It's been an honor, Your Royal Highness.”_

_They both watch him leave and once he's out of sight, Sybille heaves a deep sigh. “As always, you seem to know just when you're wanted.”_

_“I should hope so,” Olivier says. “I would never want you to get tired of me.”_

_“Never,” she promises. “I'll always want you.”_

* * *

  _She's thirty and covered in blood and she should clean herself up, but all she can think about is her sister screaming at her, telling her she'll never forgive her, that Sybille's a murderer, she's a monster who's never loved anything at all. She's just a cold bitch that will die alone, unloved and unwanted._

_There's a knock at her door and she really has to fire her doorman, because she told Philippe she didn't want any visitors._

_“It's me, Sybille,” and she doesn't want to open the door, but it's Olivier and she doesn't have to use her sight to know that he won't leave._

_She opens the door and he stands there, taking in her bloody clothing, her wild hair, all the things she's tried to hide from everyone. Because once they find out who she truly is, it's all over._

_There's a reason why every witch learns illusion in their first year._

_“Sybille,” he says._

_“Olivier.”_

_And he opens his arms for her to walk into them and close her eyes, allowing herself just a moment of truth before she has to put the mask back on._

* * *

  _She's thirty-five and it's the last time she'll be with him, but she doesn't know it yet ._

_They're laughing over some stupid little nothing that someone had said_

_He's kissing her neck and she's leaning back, allowing herself to bask in the moment._

_"You are magnificent," he says, in between kisses. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen."_

_“Of course I am, darling,” she teases. “There's no one else like me.”_

_He laughs. “So modest, too.”_

_“You wouldn't appreciate me if I was,” Sybille murmurs and takes his hand, moving it further down to graze her breasts. Her breath hitches slightly as his cool hand touches her skin._

_“Or do you want me to play disguise?” She bats her lashes dramatically and raises her voice higher._

_“Olivier, I don't know what to do. I am but a young girl, innocent in the ways of love. Your passion overwhelms me and I am lost.”_

_His voice goes deeper, a parody of itself. “My sweet Sybille, your tender pleas move my heart. I renounce my evil ways and promise to keep our courtship chaste and pure. Naught but a kiss upon your brow shall be our contact.”_

_“Don't go too far,” she said, and he bends down to nibble on her neck before she bats at him, still laughing._

_“I love you,” he says._

_He means it and it's the most horrible curse of any she could have imagined_

_Damn you, she thinks. Don't turn this into something real._

_“I told you. You're going too far.” She's not going to look back at him, to see the smile disappear from his face._  
_'_  
_“Of course,” he says. “I forgot.”_

_He moves away from her._

_And that's the end._

* * *

 The invitation for George's party had arrived and though normally, she would welcome it – George was always munificent with the champagne and a fairly pliable bed-mate – the circumstances made it less than ideal.

After all, the new Monsieur and Madame Lapointe would be in attendance in all their newly wedded bliss and according to rumors, George' most honored guests.

If she didn't know George as well as she did, she'd think it well-done revenge for neglecting him these past six months.

But of course, it was George and his obtuseness was legendary. He probably thought her just as pleased as him that a beloved friend had finally married. True love wins in the end.

Sybille snorted. True love. A thing for fairytale princesses, not the evil witch that tries to tear them apart, only to fail in the end.

For she had tried to break the spell she was certain Delphine had upon him. She cast her vision out, only to run against stone walls, blocking him from her. Sybille sent messages to him, dreams of the two of them together, but they always seemed to dissipate into nothing.

She was as powerless as she was before -- when she hadn't yet discovered what she was capable of. Before the coterie found her and trained her. Before-- well, before everything became what it was. She would not regret her choices.

Nor would she ask Aurelie or Lucienne for help. They would only find her situation pitiable, treat her as something pathetic to wound herself over a man like this.

No, she would not go to the party. Nothing good could come of it. She would send her regrets. It was the intelligent thing to do. She felt ill and sadly would not be good companionship that evening. It would not be an entire lie.

And yet, she could not bring herself to put pen to the excuse that would free her from her obligation. There was a voice whispering in her that told her she had to go, had to see him one last time to free herself. She couldn't just leave it at this.

It was a foolish idea. If she went, she'd be going out of desperation and longing.

So she found herself donning the red dress, the one he had always loved on her, the one that made some whisper behind their fans and others steer clear of her.

And no wigs. She'd wear the headwear Meryem just sent her from Ankara. If she was going to reveal her true self, she was going to do so in style. 

* * *

 Of course, George was exceptionally dense that evening, which made even his usually stupid, but charming remarks seem even more irritating.

“I say, isn't this just a wonderful evening.” He beamed at her as she fanned herself.

Obviously, he wanted to make conversation and Sybille could have no part of that. She glared at him and he subsided, looking down like a scolded little boy. Why had she ever been in with him in the first place?

Oh, that was right. As a lover, his tongue actually became an advantage.

All around her, she could see the usual assortment of sycophantic courtiers and insensitive nobles. There was Monsieur Levesque, who was having an affair with Madame Fortier, whose husband was currently not so subtly visiting Monsieur Perrault twice weekly. And everyone knew that Madame Perrault herself had rather intimate relations with her maid, Virginie.

It was all so repetitive and tedious, the affairs of these fools' hearts. Why would anyone want to be in love?

There was a pain through her heart and her head reeled for a moment. When it cleared, she wished that it had not.

“Monsieur and Madame Lapointe,” the herald announced and her hell had truly begun. Beside her, George stupidly waved at them.

She had no choice but to keep looking as Olivier kissed Delphine on her cheek. There were guests clapping, glasses of champagne no doubt fueling their bonhomie. It was a night of blissful happiness, and she felt like the thundercloud the room, the lightning wishing to strike them all down and turn everything to ashes.

She didn't care if George was growing increasingly concerned by her mutterings, if he could feel her mounting rage, if anyone near her was gossiping about her attendance. The only ones that mattered in the room were laughing, mocking her pain.

Olivier must have sensed her anger because he looked directly at her – in warning? In anger? – before he turned to talk to someone else. The pain in her heart grew and she felt herself gasping. She had to flee, to get away.

She had to--

He was looking at her again and she couldn't stop staring back. She was the strongest of them there. Why could she not shake this pain?

Sybille cast her vision out, to try to see the spell caging Olivier. Certainly, with direct sight, she should be able to see what Delphine had woven. But it came back empty, no traces of anything. Could her sister have really refined her gifts that strongly?

She tried counterspells, her voice growing louder, but still hidden by the music and the insipid conversations around her. Nothing was working – why?

Frustrated, she sat back down next to George, whose sense of timing was dreadful as always. She pushed him away as he tried to kiss her neck. Good lord, could he not see that she was this close to jamming her fan down his throat?

And of course, that was when Olivier had to kiss Delphine the same way he kissed her.

She could have killed them all right then and felt nothing but peace.

Instead, she drained a glass of champagne, ignoring George's disapproving look and Delphine's vacant smile. If she couldn't have a lover and she didn't have power, she could take oblivion.

Strangely, oblivion felt a lot like freedom and Sybille found herself drifting. She was a guest in her own body and it was walking up to her lover and pulling him aside, casting Delphine aside who stepped aside, amusement in her eyes.

“I need to talk to you, Olivier,” Sybille said, and watched him grow uncomfortable.

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and let her pull him aside.

“How could you?” she said as soon as they were a little distance away.

“Sybille--”

“Are you trying to hurt me? Trying to make me bleed?”

“It's not that--”

“Because I could not think of a way you could make me suffer anymore than this,” she said. She was outside her body now, watching its fists beat against his chest.

Olivier was trying to calm her. “It's not revenge.”

“Then why are you hurting me like this?” she asked as he pushed her back. All she wanted to do was hold him and he was slipping through her hands like water.

“ I'm not trying to hurt you--” he hissed, disentangling himself, before walking back into the crowd.

Sybille watched him go, hand to her forehead. “But you're doing very well, my dear.”

* * *

 She should go home, she knew. She was drunk, tired, and the pounding in her head was almost as painful as the consistent stabbing pains in her heart. What remained of her rationality told her that nothing could come from her staying but more pain, more embarrassment, more heartache.

But what had being rational gotten her?

She stalked back into the main room, pushing people aside. There were gasps, hands held to mouths, laughs in the background. She didn't care.

In front of her were the traitors – their eyes widening. Delphine grasped Olivier possessively and Sybille did not care anymore. If she was going down, if this was to be it, then she'd go down in flames. Her voice was as loud as it had ever been.

“Take me back,” she was shouting, even as she watched her sister clutch Olivier and mentally push her back. She fought forward again and again, George standing by as clueless as ever, but clearly fed up with her. Well, to hell with him. To hell with everyone in the room – to hell with decorum and polite society and the way things should be.

She was Sybille du Rand and she did not back down.

She did not--

“Let it go, Sybille,” Aurelie said from behind her as she took one arm.

“It's over,” Lucienne added as she took the other arm.

Sybille collapsed to the ground, bent low by the weight of their power.

To hell with them, too.

She began to crawl on her knees. There could have been knives and spikes and shards of glass upon the floor and she would still crawl to get him back.

Because she loved him.

Had always loved him, would always love him, no matter how much time passed. It could be a year or a century and she would never let him go.

Except that she had to, didn't she?

It hurts, doesn't it, sister.

Delphine's voice was gently mocking. To do everything you can and know that it's not enough. Maybe if you had tried from the beginning. But now--

Now it's too late.

Sybille stood up, and the pounding in her head disappeared, leaving her shaky and clear-headed and farr too aware of the people around her. Now that she was no longer clouded by rage or desperation or way too much champagne, the horrible mess she had made was all too evident.

Bravery was all well and good, she thought bitterly, but cowardice would always let you live another day to regret everything you did.

She found herself running through the doors, trying to get away from everyone. From George's dumb laughter and Olivier's dismay and Delphine's triumph.

She was stupid.

She was weak.

She was-- Olivier?

It had to be an illusion. Some cruel final trick from her sister. 

But an illusion didn't sweep you up off the floor, warm and strong and smelling a little bit too much of champagne and smoke. 

“It's just like you to leave the party after causing such a scene,” Olivier said, smiling. “Really, you always keep me on my toes."” His hands supported her, and she allowed herself to fall back into him.

“Well, you'll just have to keep me from going too far,” Sybille said.

“You can never go too far,” he replied and kissed her.


	2. Deleted Scenes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially included the second chapter as my ending, but it seemed a bit too Scooby Doo-ish. Still, for those wanting the unmasking, I've included it.

 “Honestly,” Madame Archambault said,” These parties have become so dull since Olivier and Sybille fled to Austria. I was hoping for at least a duel or two.”

Madame de Poirier clinked her glass in agreement. “Though I thought they outlawed them after the revolution?”

“Well, of course they did, but no one who's anyone listens to the government about that.”

“Sadly, this time, everyone's being sensible and practical without any fireballs in sight.”

“Well, perhaps George's new mistress will liven things up.”

* * *

 

“I didn't really see your plan working at first,” Aurelie said, as she summoned for the maid to bring some brandy. “We all know how stubborn Sybille is and Olivier has a known resistance to our gifts.”

“Of course he does,” Delphine said, lying back on the divan. “That's why I didn't cast my spell on him. I cast it on her.”

“Really? I thought her wards were impeccable.” Lucienne idly spun a silver orb she conjured in the air before snapping her fingers, turning it to smoke. “We've never managed to breach them.”

“I know my sister. She's too confident in her abilities. She'd never look for a spell to be cast on her, especially not one to block her sight. And once that was done, all I needed to do was make a minor compulsion that she might want to attend a party and the rest fell into place.”

“I'm impressed,” Aurelie said. “It's no small feat to get Sybille to do anything she doesn't want to do.”

“I didn't make her do anything she didn't want to do. I just let her know it was a good idea to do it.” Delphine added. “And he had to see how much she loved him or they never would have gotten anywhere.”

“Still,” Lucienne said, “you took a great risk. Even if you were able to predict what she would do, you couldn't control what he would do. What if Olivier had decided to stay with you?”

“I would have killed him.”

Aurelie sat up a bit straighter from her reclined position and gave her a steady look. Delphine smiled sweetly in response. “If he would have been willing to spurn my sister after she bared her heart to him so openly and ignore her pain, he would have deserved it.”

Lucienne slowly gave Delphine a muffled clap as Aurelie motioned for her maid to set the brandy on the table in front of them. “And here I thought Sybille was the witch of the story.”

“Don't be silly,” Delphine said. “I'm far better suited to the job.”


End file.
